


Death is Only the Beginning (Fey/Demon Harry Potter Story Poll)

by BattleScarredKitsune



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Demons, Grey Harry, Intelligent Harry, Lore - Freeform, M/M, More to be added with chosen story, War, fey magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:02:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27583787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BattleScarredKitsune/pseuds/BattleScarredKitsune
Summary: Poll between: Cedric’s death opens Harry’s eyes to the world around him and the ritual in the graveyard did so much more than bring Voldemort back. Now Harry must fend for himself and decide who it is he can really trust and the consequences of that cold Halloween night. Is everything as black and white as the chess pieces they are seen as, or could there be really more to this than he’s been told?And...Weeks just before Harry is supposed to start at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he disappears. By all accounts, the Boy Who Lived died, yet there was nobody and his relatives are no longer around to answer any questions. In the five years since the news hit Wizarding Britain, it is like the first war all over again. Shadows creep ever closer and the Dark is slowly snuffing out the Light. Just before what would have been Harry’s sixth year, a boy --young man-- appears. Appearances make everyone believe the Boy Who Lived is back, yet there is a shroud around the boy that speaks from beyond the veil. Will this newcomer defeat He Who Must Not Be Named? Can he be trusted? And why does it seem that there is more in play than just two sides moving their pawns?
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	1. Marked for Death

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So I am not abandoning any of my other stories, but this idea (or rather these ideas) can't seem to go away and my muse is being stubborn. So, I have two story ideas centering around Harry and him being associated with the fey. What I would like to know, is if readers would prefer one or the other. I will likely not write both as they have a lot of similar ideas and plot points, so it's a decision on which direction I go in. Please PM me or comment if you have a vote or thoughts. I'll let the poll go until the new year.
> 
> Dislaimer: I own nothing of the HP universe/lore. I also want to point out that I will likely not start writing the story right away, though I have parts already written. With all the stories I have and the fact that RL is a thing, I want to have a solid chuck written before I post. 
> 
> Thanks!  
> ~BattleScarredKitsune

**Summary:** Cedric’s death opens Harry’s eyes to the world around him and the ritual in the graveyard did so much more than bring Voldemort back. Now Harry must fend for himself and decide who it is he can really trust and the consequences of that cold Halloween night. Is everything as black and white as the chess pieces they are seen as, or could there be really more to this than he’s been told.

**Chapter One**

He still shivered, tremors racking his frame as he sat in the infirmary. A sardonic snort made its way through him as he realized this part of the castle could have easily doubled as his dorm with the amount of time he had spent here. Yet, he didn’t see the white, sterilized beds or the old castle walls or even paid much attention to the raised voices in Madam Pomfrey’s office. All he could see, all he could pay attention to, was a flash of green and dead eyes staring back at him. 

Another shudder ran through him. It was all his fault. If he had just followed what Cedric said, he would still be alive. It wasn’t fair. It simply wasn’t fair. It was all his fault. He was poison, everything he touched, everyone he cared about died.

The dark despair of his musings were abruptly cut short as the voices he had been staunchly ignoring racked up several more decibels. He tried not to listen, he just wanted oblivion, to be numb and forget everything that happened, yet closing his eyes only revealed accusation and cold disdain. He let the words wash over him before they were abruptly cut off. A ripple of something passed by him. _Must be a silencing spell_ , a fleeting thought made it through the darkness _._ They should have thought to use that a long time ago. But he didn’t feel annoyed, didn’t feel anything other than a deep yawning depression opening up to swallow him whole.

* * *

He felt numb, robotic, as he boarded the Hogwarts Express, having only been released from the infirmary a mere hour ago, yet terrified to close his eyes, even for such a small moment as blinking. A small part of him registered movement in the compartment, but he no longer could find anything in himself to care. The stares he received as the train slowly lurched forward and made its way along the tracks told him that his friends were concerned, but it meant nothing. Every time his eyes closed, flashes from the last trial of his life came to him in a macabre tragedy.

“Harry-” Hermoine tried to soothe, to gain his attention and offer comfort, but he felt dead. Emerald eyes bore into hers and she flinched back, looking at Ron for support. It was all his fault, he didn’t deserve her comfort. He turned his face back to the window, but saw nothing. The remainder of the train ride was encased in somber silence.

He remembered these last four years. All the chaos and tragedy that surrounded him. The scenery and old memories morphed once more into hard stone protrusions jutting upwards from the hard earth naming the long since departed, a cold body signaling a fresh soul to keep them company. A shuddering breath breached his lungs and he curled in on himself, praying no tears would make an appearance. If there was one thing he had learned, it was never to cry.

* * *

The release of steam signaled their arrival to the platform, but Harry did not move, his gaze still peering through the glass, yet not seeing the passing scenes or the reflections. All he could see was death and the empty stares of Voldemort’s victims plaguing him without remorse. Memories from the day replayed in his mind’s eye, his penance for being the catalyst of their passing.

Finally, when the crowds began to disperse, happy parents picking up their children without worry, he stood on shaky legs and, as if in a trance, disembarked the train. He absently grabbed his trunk and Hedwig’s cage, the sight of his familiar the only bright feeling he could muster. He was thrown out of his despondency when he heard the gruff voice of Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody. The real one.

“Potter,” the ex-auror’s voice clipped, his magical eye zooming all around. “Let’s go.” The man turned on his heel and walked with purpose toward the entrance back to the muggle world. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry noticed a few more people following but paid it little mind.

Like every year, he waited hours past his arrival for his uncle, but this time he had unwanted company. Heavy footsteps were the first sign of his uncle’s arrival and he was angry. A deep red contorted his features as he walked up to him and Harry stood, not wanting to place more of his uncle’s ire upon himself. However, it was not meant to be.

“You his uncle?” Moody’s gruff bark drew his Uncle Vernon’s attention and Harry knew he would be in for a world of trouble. A barely concealed snarl plastered itself across his uncle’s ruddy face.

“Yes,” his terse response only gave credence to Harry’s fears, as distant as they may yet feel.

Although it was meant to be a quiet threat, something he was not supposed to hear, Harry heard all that Moody had to say. For the first time, the numbness was abating for more than a fleeting moment, only to be replaced with fear. “You will not lay a finger on the boy,” Harry internally flinched at the term, “or we will be paying you and yours a visit. Is that understood?” his magical eye whirring around, staff held threateningly in front of him.

The red that had been coloring his uncle’s face turned into ugly plum, the threat not lost on any of those who listened. “You-” Harry’s uncle growled, eyes wide, nostrils flared as he reigned in his anger. “Come, boy!” he growled instead, a rough hand clapping down on his shoulder, the meaty grip shaking slightly, but whether that was fear or anger was difficult to tell.

The drive was silent. Not like on the train where there were only his morose thoughts and the silent presence of his friends for company. No, the progression from the train station was as the footsteps of doom, the mere minutes before he was to be reduced to nothing but ash and dust. His uncle said nothing, the puce still staining his face, while his hands gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned ivory. He was grateful to be in the backseat.

As the car finally came to a halt, Harry tensed, every muscle taut as a bowstring. The click of a seatbelt buckle and the opening of the car door told Harry to move. He quickly made his way out of the vehicle, grabbing Hedwig’s cage and trailed after his irate uncle who was holding onto his trunk… That was the only indication he had. Never before had his uncle remained in contact with “freakishness.” His trunk was manhandled into the cupboard under the stairs and Harry watched with growing trepidation as the man turned to him, an almost manic look to his eye just as the front door shut with a click.

Harry turned on his heel, instinct egging him on, his quick Quidditch reflexes letting him simultaneously open the cage he still held. Practically yanking the front door back open, he shouted,

“Hedwig, go!” and his familiar launched herself out of her metal prison, white wings taking her aloft into the winds. Thunderous footsteps approached him quickly and he was yanked back and thrown onto the ground as the door was once again shut. The sliding of the deadbolt sent a cold shiver down his spine as he stared up into the eyes of his irate uncle. The man was incensed, face once again puce in color, his breathing labored as if he was so angry he could not form words.

There was a moment, a second in time where everything froze. Harry just watched his uncle, watched as his tormentor reared his ugly head before darting toward the stairs. With all his reflexes, all of his honed instincts of dodging his pursuers, a meaty paw still managed to encircle his wrist and he was brought down once again onto the hard wooden floors. Punches landed ruthlessly on his body, kicks leaving more than just bruises. There was another moment, a pause where his uncle looked around, as if afraid, and for a moment Harry didn’t understand until a cold smile splashed across his uncle’s face. No one was coming to stop his uncle, no one was coming to save him.

The onslaught of his person continued without rest and he tried in vain to stand, to move away, but his body could not shake off the man brutalizing him. It felt like hours as the heavy blows continued to wrack his already malnourished and beaten form. There were no saviors here, no lucky breaks for him to get away. He was utterly alone and at the mercy of his jailer.

Heavy breathing that wasn’t his own finally told Harry his uncle was done, for now. A merciless hand gripped his hair and a cry of pain was pulled from his lips as his uncle practically dragged him up the stairs, his legs barely able to keep him up. Like trash, Harry was thrown into his sparsely furnished room, if one could call it that. His body collided with the floor and everything went black.

* * *

Ghostly figures surrounded him in eerie green, accusations flying at him as if they had the power to tear him to pieces.

“Murderer!”

“Betrayer!”

“We died because of you!”

Over and over, the cacophony of voices grew in pitch, swirling around him. The specters morphed into darkness revealing the tattered forms of the dementors as he was forced to recall all the death he had seen, the screams, and a bright green flash. In that moment, he saw every death and pain not unlike what he felt in the graveyard washed through him.

Harry woke up to a scream in his throat and banging on the door.

“Quiet that racket!” the thudding of his uncle’s fist making his whole body recoil, his frame shaking in barely contained tremors. Booming steps receded and he knew he would be getting no sleep for the rest of the night, the empty stares of the dead plaguing him without remorse. Memories from his nightmare replayed in his mind, despite his want to the contrary.

A quiet pecking against his window brought his attention back to the present. He looked up from where he still lay on the floor to see Hedwig clutching the bars with her talons as a makeshift perch. Struggling to push himself up, his shaky arms and legs finally acquiesced and he slowly made his way to the window. 

It took more strength then he believed he could muster, but his snowy familiar glided in and perched on the frame of his rickety, old bed. Stumbling the few feet, he managed to place his aching body on the worn mattress in a semi-controlled fashion. Gentle hoots filled the small gap between them, Hedwig offering what little comfort she could. Gently, hands still shaking, he stroked the ebony speckled ivory, the feathers soft as silk. Both familiar and wizard remained on the tattered construct his relatives “so kindly” gave him to sleep.

Sighing after what could have been hours or mere minutes, he slid across the mattress, Hedwig watching carefully, until he was resting against the iron making up the footboard. Struggling and using the old metal as a crutch, he wavered toward the old decrepit desk. The chair groaned and shifted slightly beneath his underweight frame. Panting he opened the only drawer slightly to fish out ink, a quill, and parchment. With all of his other supplies now locked in the cupboard downstairs, Harry realized how little remained. With shaky determination, he folded one piece of parchment in half and tried to rip it cleanly in two. He flicked the old light and began to write.

_Hermoine,_

_Made it back. Please stay in touch._

_Harry_

He wrote a similar letter to Ron and gave both to Hedwig after folding them in half and writing his friends’ names on the quick notes. Usually, he never sent letters this early in the summer, not that the short missives really counted as full letters, but he was afraid. If Hedwig stayed with him and his uncle found out… a deep, full body shudder racked his already aching muscles. He didn’t want to think about what might happen. In many ways, Hedwig had been his first friend, his most loyal companion these last four years. If anything happened to her, he didn’t know what he would do.

“Go on, girl,” he stroked her head with his knuckle, “and stay with Ron unless you have a letter.”

The snowy owl paused for a moment, nibbling on Harry’s ear in comfort before launching through the window into the deep night. Harry watched her leave, longing to escape with her. He simply stared out after her, not even attempting sleep. Light slowly creeped over the horizon, dull oranges and yellows dusting the tops of houses. His eyes stung with the morning light, but he remained curled up, knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. That is until he heard the pounding of footsteps and a bang on his door. Even after all of these years, he still jumped. The turning of several locks clicked their way into his mind and he watched the door in trepidation. Once the last click resounded in his ears, another slap of meaty hands signaled his uncle’s retreat.

Unfurling himself, he moved to change, going through all the motions as if in a trance. First day of hell. Like every summer. Already his stomach was starting to cramp for food, but he knew it wouldn’t be that simple. There was no Great Hall for him to get meals, no kitchen to sneak down to grab a snack if he were hungry.

Harry opened the door as silently as possible and moved into the hallway, dread pooling in his gut. He knew every creak and loose floorboard by heart. His feet pulled him through the house into the kitchen, the sounds of the television meeting his ears long before he stepped into the room.

A pang of hurt and envy raced through him, though it was nothing new. Uncle Vernon sat at the table with the newspaper and a cup of coffee while his aunt busied herself, all smiles and normalcy. However, her long face went from the caricature of joy to one of disdain.

“Finish making breakfast, you useless boy,” she snapped, the wooden spoon in her apron a silent reminder. Quickly, he made his way into the kitchen and took over making the pans. Always a full English breakfast: bacon, eggs, toast, tomatoes, sausage… yet he could only get scraps if he was good. _If there’s ever any left._ That had been a rather large obstacle to overcome in his life: both Dursley males ate more than anyone else he had ever seen.

As he plated the food, he felt his stomach clench yet again. After acclimating to three full meals a day again, going without even for such a short period of time hurt. He carried the full plates over, carefully keeping a blank face and his head down. It didn’t matter if he had come to find freedom inside the walls of Hogwarts, here he needed to abide by the rules that governed his relatives. To be sure, he had learned his lesson.

Every year, especially his first two years coming back after Hogwarts, he had been viciously reminded of his so-called place in the house. His relatives made sure he understood that it was their _blessings_ and _goodheartedness_ that allowed him to have a roof over his head, clothing on his back, and food in his stomach. Yet, he had to work for every scrap, every busted up, broken item Dudley no longer wanted.

He quickly moved away on nearly silent feet and surreptitiously grabbed scraps of food and squatted in the corner of the kitchen away from prying eyes. The cramping and hunger from his stomach was hard to ignore, but he wasn’t going to be too blatant about it. Harry had learned early on not to bring attention to his needs, lest he go longer without.

“Boy!” Uncle Vernon yelled, the sound reverberating across the first floor. Harry sprang to his feet and hustled around the corner, looking to some poor observer as if he had come out of the woodwork or had always been there, but too insignificant to be noticed.

“Yes, sir?” keeping his head down as he stood to his uncle’s right, close enough to do whatever asked, yet far enough for the possibility of escape.

“Clean this up, boy! And get me more coffee!” his uncle bellowed, spittle spewing ungraciously onto the napkin tucked under his chin.

“Yes, Uncle Vernon,” he quickly moved to collect the used dishes, burying his emotions deep, deep below the surface. Like any waiter, he placed the plates precariously upon his arm and in his hand, but with perfected balance. Carefully, he avoided his cousin Dudley, choosing to collect the flood splattered dishware from him first, securely in his hand, to avoid any mishaps that resulted in projectiles and an ungraceful heap on the floor. Harry had learned early on in life that Dudley’s feet liked to “accidentally” find their way beneath his own.

As he slaved over the sink, watching the bits and crumbs of uneaten food swirl down the drain, he couldn’t help but think of how wasteful it was or how both male Dursleys ate like Ron. The table looked like part of the Gryffindor table from the dining hall, pieces of food decorating the white table cloth in gross cascades.

Harry was just about finished with scrubbing the plates, the pans from breakfast already on the drying rack when his aunt’s shrill voice broke him out of his thoughts. He was careful that the plate in his sudsey hand was firm in his grasp, he dropped a plate a few times when he was very young, he could not walk for days after the beating.

“Here,” Aunt Petunia thrust a piece of paper at him, a sneer of derision and superiority aimed at him. Her eyes were filled with scorn and hate and Harry had to keep himself still, his uncle’s presence a silent deterrent for any back talk. “Complete everything on that list,” she screeched more, “before we get back!” She turned back to the others, “My Duddikins!” she once again moved around the table to kiss him on the cheek. 

Harry tuned them out and looked at the piece of paper that now sported wet fingerprints. He was to finish in the kitchen, clean the living room, and do all the yard work, somehow before his relatives returned… which he didn’t even know when they would be back.

“Boy,” Uncle Vernon growled lowly, viridian eyes carefully locking onto the whale-like frame. “If those chores are not done or you do any funny business,” the hulking creature pointed the keys in Harry’s face, “any at all! You will wish you were never born!” The lumberous frame waddled away after the rest of his family and Harry remained still, body stiff until he heard the door close and the dead bolt slide home. A breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding left him in a rush and his hand shook as he held the paper, his other fist gripping the counter in support.

Harry sighed in almost defeat. Looking around, he didn’t have much left to do in the kitchen. Finishing in a daze, he moved toward the living room, not that there was much to clean… Aunt Petunia compulsively kept the house tidy, save the space meant only for him. However, he couldn’t help lingering on the locked cupboard beneath the stairs. All of his things were there, hidden away, and out of reach. 

Memories of his failures plagued him. Of how he barely managed to scrape by all the misadventures in his life. Sure, Ron and Hermoine tried to help, perhaps thought it great and heroic as the Boy-Who-Lived, but the truth was, most of it had been luck. Sheer dumb luck, as Professor McGonagall would say. He wasn’t prepared, not at all. Cedric’s death drove that home in macabre clarity.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood staring at the door that had always kept him in, but now kept him _out_ . What if he could learn what he needed to know? His books were so close. A fearfully quick glance made its way to the front door, could he? They were gone and it was a simple lock. If he could unlock the door… he could quickly take them and read through them. Another glance at the door and then the clock told him they were only gone for just over fifteen minutes. _When they go out on Sundays, they aren’t usually back for a couple of hours._ He had time.

Quickly, he grabbed the lock and lifted it up to see the keyhole. Despite the size, it was a simple locking mechanism. Not for the first time, he wished he could just _use_ his magic without a wand and without fear of the Ministry somehow having the means to track wandless magic, if he could even perform complex magic without a wand. Thinking back, there was a time, some years ago, that Dudley had been obsessed with a cop show and one episode featured someone picking a lock. They had used two thin pieces of metal, but he couldn’t recall anything else. Sadly, he remembered the day not for the few moments he caught sight of the telly, but because his uncle had been in one of his more dangerous moods.

Shaking the thoughts from his mind, it would not due to dwell on them, he looked around for something sharp and long. In his search, Harry also realized how dependent he was on having his wand. Ironically, he could run upstairs and grab his wand from under his floorboards but he remembered the missive he had received from the Ministry and didn’t want to chance not being allowed back into Hogwarts. He had to go back. He couldn’t stay here, not with them.

Harry searched around quickly before darting to the laundry room off the side of the kitchen. On a shelf just above his head lay a sewing kit. Grabbing it, he placed it on top of the dryer and rummaged through it quickly, trying to find something longer than a bobby pin to use. It seemed that whatever benevolence he gained was only meant to be used under the most dire of circumstances. He found nothing long enough for him to manipulate. Placing the kit back _exactly_ as he had found it, he retreated back to the hall looking at the part of the stair wall that had been a prison door keeping him locked away in his younger years. He stared at the physical representation of his treatment, the same very treatment somehow reaffirming his relatives’ belief that he was a freak.

Without conscious thought, he grabbed the lock again and pulled, trying to vent his frustrations at being thwarted by something so simple as a lock. A click resounded in his ears and he froze. The lock in his hand was open, the base of the lock swinging freely. Green eyes widened and he looked at the front door in a state of surreal panic. The entire house was silent, the sound of cars absent outside. Breathing a shaky sigh of relief, he returned his attention back to the lock. Seeker reflexes coming forth, the lock was suddenly free of the door and light was now pouring through the previously dark cupboard. There on the ground lay his trunk. 

A pregnant pause filled the room before Harry moved into action. Thankfully, having never really had anything of his own, he had kept all of his school books. Looking at the collection he pulled from one of the drawers, as always bigger on the inside, he noticed there really weren’t that many books. Blatantly, he ignored the books by Lockheart, the fraud still at St. Mungo’s having no idea who he was. Grabbing all of them save those from his second year defense teacher, he quickly shut everything and returned the lock to its place. Harry gathered the books once again and ran up the stairs straight into his meagre bedroom and hid all of them beneath his bed.

Adrenaline filled him as he raced back down and tried to focus on the chores he was told to complete. The living room was, as always, spotless. Quickly, he cleaned any hard surface he could reach with a dust cloth and brought out the vacuum. With efficiency garnered through experience, the living room was now devoid of even the smallest specks of dirt. Putting the appliance away, he quickly made his way outside, still wary of what he had done. _Would his uncle realize what he had done? What was the plan? How was he even supposed to read the books without getting caught?_ He traipsed to the garage and pulled out the mower. _Better get this done. I need to focus..._

* * *

The rest of the day turned into the afternoon with Harry having finished mowing the lawn and working on weeding all of the flower beds. The sun beat down on him with intensity and he decided to rinse his hands using the hose. Still fearful his relatives might return at any moment, he quickly dunked his head after a few fearful looks around the yard. He was standing off to the side and even the neighbors would have a more than difficult time spotting him. Having cooled off slightly, he returned to the flower beds to finish weeding. Normally his relatives returned before he was able to complete their list, but there was still no sign of them.

_Speak of the devil_ , the thought crossed his mind as he heard tires hit the pavement of the driveway. He never understood how, but they somehow always knew when to come back, as if to simply crush any potential hope that punishment would not be a part of his everyday life. Keeping his head down, he continued to weed the back, having thankfully done the front first. There wasn’t much left to do and if he were truly lucky, they would grouse at him, let him finish his work, and then lock him in his room.

“Boy!” Uncle Vernon shouted from inside the house. Quickly, Harry doffed the gardening gloves he had been wearing and brushed off his oversized jeans. Keeping his head slightly bowed, he walked through the back door into the kitchen.

“Yes, Uncle Vernon?” he spoke meekly, lifting his eyes to look at the man.

“You haven’t finished yet?” Though it was phrased more like a question, Harry knew it as a statement preceding a verbal bashing.

“I just have the back garden,” was the honest answer, though it would not truly save him, despite the amount of work being far more than a single person should be able to complete in a single afternoon.

“Finish your chores, you useless freak!” the man bellowed, lower chins jiggling about with every word. After all these years, Harry knew to simply nod and return to work. The more he acted like a silent house elf, the more likely he was to get fed.

Quickly retreating, he donned the gloves still laying in the grass and worked on finishing weeding the last of the gardens, not that any of the neighbors could really see, but guests could view them through the doors to the back and it was only “proper” to have every aspect of the house “perfect.”

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Harry stood, body wavering slightly, before returning the gloves and other gardening equipment to their rightful places in the garage. He walked into the house, making sure not to mess up the pristine house, and found his aunt and uncle on the couches.

“Go straight upstairs!” his uncle ordered as soon as he could see Harry. He couldn’t help but to dart his eyes toward the kitchen, stomach bringing its demands back to the forefront of his mind. Forcing the uncomfortable clenching of his stomach and the hunger pains away, he quietly turned and made his way up to his cell. 

Upon closing the door, Harry simply stood only a few feet into the desolate bedroom. He turned his head back slightly listening to the noises to the telly playing below and any movements from his relatives. After several agonizing seconds, he darted quietly to the books hiding under his bed. Once the books were separated into stacks by year on the bed, he stared at them as he sat cross legged on the worn comforter.

_Okay, so where do I start? Should I look over this past year’s stuff or start at the beginning?_ If he started with fourth year and worked his way back, well he would likely run into concepts he should have learned in previous years, but didn’t fully understand. Plus, if he kept this up, he didn’t want to be the butt of gossip for reading first year books as a fifth year. 

Mind made up, Harry pulled the stack of books from his first year forward toward his lap. _Perhaps the best place to start is the overall theory of magic,_ he nodded to himself at the thought. He turned to the first page of _Magical Theory_ and began the trek through the pages.

The book itself wasn’t overly long, it _was_ intended for first year students, but many of the passages were dry, just like the class had been. Harry decided then and there that he would try and alternate between the tomes dedicated to theory and those to practical coursework. He was sure it would be the only way for him to make it through the summer. Unlike Hermoine, he didn’t read every book he could get his hands on; he wasn’t a fanatical bibliophile and he truly enjoyed the practical side of learning magic. That’s not to say he didn’t like reading, but it had been a long time since he purposefully lost himself in books, and even then it was on topics he genuinely enjoyed or fiction. 

He blinked. When he was much younger, he had often used the school library as a place to hide away from his cousin and would read in a corner until he had to leave. Why did he stop? Maybe… maybe he could start enjoying reading again, and maybe when he was caught up, he could read up on the subjects he was most interested in… whatever those may be.

It wasn’t until he heard the grating of a dish on the floorboards being pushed through the catflap that he realized he had been absorbed in the book. Heart stammering in his chest, he froze like a rabbit hiding from a wolf waiting for that one moment where he would be caught. It would have been all too easy for his relatives to see him reading his school books. He remained frozen in place until the thudding of feet down the staircase turned into a softer pattering of shoes downstairs.

Moving silently, he quickly moved the stacks of books from his bed to underneath the bed all the way to the back. On a barely held together shelf sat a few muggle books Dudley had no longer wanted and he moved to the bookshelf and grabbed the covering of the one hardcover book he had and wrapped it around _Magical Theory_. At least now, on a first glance, it would simply look like he was re-reading the book.

Crisis averted, Harry took a chance and looked at the meagre food offering. Bread, some broth, though it looked mostly like dirty water that had been warmed up, and a small cup of clear water, made up his dinner. A sigh escaped him as he picked up the plate acting as his tray and brought it over to the desk. Carefully, he opened the book and continued reading.

Sometime later, another slap against the door made him jump, but he knew what it meant. Harry picked up his dishes and opened the door to see his uncle’s scowling face. He walked downstairs to the kitchen under the watchful eye of his jailer and washed and set the dishes on the rack to dry before making his way back up. After a quick run to the bathroom for his nightly ablutions, Harry crawled back into bed before snatching the book back. A small flashlight was hidden by his bed and he took it out now to continue his regimen. 

However, his eyes began to droop and he had to admit defeat. Little food and a hard day’s work made it difficult to continue well beyond midnight. Emerald eyes were obscured until a scream made its way out of his throat, lungs working fast and hard. From the very depths of his nightmares, the image of a dead Cedric haunted his very soul. _“How could you let me die?”_


	2. On Death's Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be sure to see the notes from chapter one!
> 
> ~BattleScarredKitsune

**Summary:** Weeks just before Harry is supposed to start at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he disappears. By all accounts, the Boy Who Lived died, yet there was no body and his relatives are no longer around to answer any questions. In the five years since the news hit Wizarding Britain, it is like the first war all over again. Shadows creep ever closer and the Dark is slowly snuffing out the Light. Just before what would have been Harry’s sixth year, a boy --young man-- appears. Appearances make everyone believe the Boy Who Lived is back, yet there is a shroud around the boy that speaks from beyond the veil. Will this newcomer defeat He Who Must Not Be Named? Can he be trusted? And why does it seem that there is more in play than just two sides moving their pawns?

**Chapter One**

The war was getting worse. Attacks all over Wizarding Britain colored the papers in stark black and white, and to top it all off? The old coot believed the Longbottom boy could be the savior. A scoff covering what one may offendedly call a laugh danced through the dark halls.

Making his way quickly through the currently empty castle, the dark clad man found himself growling out the password to the gargoyle that quickly jumped out of the way. The potion’s master stepped onto the moving stairs and briskly knocked on the door once before entering.

As usual, the headmaster was sitting in the appalling red chair with shooting stars behind the desk with his hands folded on the dark wood, crisp white beard standing out. Without prompt, he sat in the only unoccupied chair, Minerva giving him a curt nod.

“Thank you for coming, both of you,” the headmaster started. “Would you care for a lemon drop or some tea, Severus?” 

A long familiar sneer and a drawl of, “Do get on with it, Albus,” was his response.

“Of course, of course,” Albus stroked down his beard, eyes no longer carrying their traditional twinkle. “As you both know, just before his first year, Harry Potter went missing and was presumed dead when we could not find him after the first three years. However, one of the tracking spells I had placed on Harry for his safety just went active not even an hour ago. I would like you, Severus, to see if you can track the spell and find out what made the disturbance.”

“Oh,” the transfiguration’s mistress put a hand to her lips, “you think the boy is still alive, Albus?” Looking over, Severus could almost see the glistening from unshed tears on his older colleague’s face.

“It is a possibility, Minerva,” the headmaster nodded.

“Albus,” abyssal eyes blazed in fury, “you cannot possibly believe the boy is still alive!” It was absurd! They had scoured all over for the brat and saw no sign of him living. No indication that he had survived all this time, and with the Dark Lord pressing his advance... A shudder tried to make its way through. Albus knew it was a risk to resume the search, especially to have _Severus_ resume the search.

“My boy,” the wizened old wizard held up a hand to stop any further outbursts, “for the good of the wizarding world, we must check this new development. Mr. Longbottom’s progress and Voldemort’s,” Severus held back a hiss and a wince, “push forward are disproportionate, and not in our favor.” That was probably the closest he had ever heard the headmaster voice their low chances in the war.

“Will I be receiving the signature to track soon, or do I have to wait for you to finish your drivel?” he snapped, not wanting to wait any longer than necessary.

“Yes,” the older wizard produced a small glass bauble that fit neatly into his palm.

Grabbing the sphere quickly, he stood to start his already doomed search, “Anything else, Albus? Or may I take my leave?” 

“Of course, my boy,” blue eyes piercing, a small hint of a familiar twinkle coming back, but something else lurking just underneath.

Turning on his heel, the potion’s master left the office in a swirl of black fabric, his long strides eating the distance to the main gate. The early morning was grey and gloomy, clouds possibly from the breeding of dementors not allowing the summer sun to shine through.

Not wanting to waste time, Severus pulled out his wand and chanted over the glass orb. A vague image and a notion of a location came to his mind and he grimaced. He hated aparating blind. Even with an idea of where he was going, the chances of him splinching himself or ending up anywhere _but_ his intended destination rose sharply. Concentrating heavily on the blurry image, he turned and was gone with a pop.

* * *

His wand was pointed outward, his body taut as he quickly looked around and took in his surroundings. A heavy mist settled all around him making it difficult to ascertain whether or not he was alone. However, nearly two decades as a spy did not make him complacent nor did it allow him to listen to the fear sliding down his spine. 

Treading softly, he walked his way forward and happened upon a clearing of stone. A wide circle lay quietly, a ring of stone pillars criss crossing each other like woven branches of nearby trees roped the edge. This was familiar. This was ancient. His family knew of the nexuses, the places of the world where magic naturally converged. It had been said that Hogwarts herself was built upon one of the few nexuses in existence.

He lifted his hand with his ebony wand laying flat against his palm, “Point me Harry Potter.” In truth, he hadn’t really expected it to work, but like all things in his life, it worked, to his detriment. The black wood hovered, but instead of spinning or wavering as if searching, it simply pointed to the center of the stone. All the stories he had heard warned him against trespassing here. This was a place of reverence. Yet, he was bound to move forward.

Stepping through two of the interlaced pillars, it was as if everything stopped. The breeze that had been near silently ruffling the leaves and grass of the small little glade froze and an eerie quiet settled around him. Another tendril of fear gripped his spine and the hairs at the back of his neck stood on end. He took another step forward.

Once inside the circle, the mist cleared and he could now see the markings below his feet. Runes were carved all over the stone surface and Severus was in awe. There was a dark beauty in seeing such raw and wild magic, yet the whole scene was marred by his quarry. Laying there on his side, back toward him as he lay curled up in a fetal position, was presumably the very person who was said to have died all those years ago.

Severus walked toward the boy as quietly as he could, something cautioning him against breaking the silence permeating the glade. He continued until he could see the other’s face. Crouching down, he reached out and brushed away the raven locks from pale skin. Shock distinctly ran through him. This was no child. Upon his closer inspection, this man was on the brink of adulthood, if he was not yet already. The sharp angles of his face bore no signs of adolescence. Potter was to turn sixteen this summer, not nearly be twenty. _Could this really be the Potter boy?_

There was only one way to check. Lifting the dark strands again, this time he looked for the scar that every witch and wizard knew, and there it was. Standing out in dark, ugly red was the lightning bolt scar. He had found Harry Bloody Potter.

He reached a hand out to try and wake the man--boy, but stopped when he really took in Potter’s appearance. The younger male was dressed in some sort of battle garb, but he could not discern the color as it was covered in blood and grime. Where Severus could see skin, he noted bruises and cuts. Wherever Potter had been before here, it was clear he had found himself in a world of trouble.

Making a quick decision, Severus reluctantly stowed his wand, after surveying his surroundings _again_ , and picked up the boy. He stood quickly and walked past the edge of the nexus, not wanting to tamper with such magicks, and then apparated out back to the Hogwarts gates. Maybe they could finally get some answers and maybe, a small voice in the back of his mind said, maybe they had a chance.

* * *

Waking was a slow affair and then sudden. The faint softness of whatever it was he was lying on, the bright light filtering through his lids, and the constant hum of magic started his wakefulness, but the sound of voices made him alert. Verdant orbs opened abruptly to an unfamiliar room colored in pristine white that hurt his eyes. Squinting until the throb dulled, he noted that he was on a bed framed in metal, the sheets also crisp ivory with the dull crimson blanket the only sign of color. He quickly scanned what he could see for any possible route of escape and noted, somewhat concernedly, that he was no longer wearing his armor. Although he knew it could only be taken off in order to save his life or care for him, he hated the vulnerability.

Something must have alerted whoever was beyond the white curtain as the sound of soft footfalls and sharp heels signaled the arrival of four people. He pulled himself upright despite his injuries, tensing in preparation for what was to come, not wanting to be any more vulnerable than he already was.

One, a woman with a strange hat atop her head, bustled in and came right to his side. He couldn’t help but flinch back.

“It’s okay, dearie, I just need to run a few scans,” the woman continued, waving a wand in an intricate pattern, one he believed for a medical scan. The feeling of foreign magic washing over him made his own lash out in deep emerald and silver strands. He tried to move into a more defensive position, letting his magic shield him, wary of the people. Both women present gasped, the first halting her movements and the other, wrapped in tartan cloth, held a trembling hand by her lips.

“Harry, my dear boy,” the eldest of them all, based on the length of the white beard, drew his attention. He could feel magic coming from all four of them, but the strength of the elder’s was grating across his own. Suddenly, he was blinking back in shock of a different kind. What was it the man was wearing? Was this some sort of human or perhaps wizarding custom he had never learned? The stark bland coloring of before seemed all too preferable to the horrid cacophony of colors and shapes of the man’s robes. Raising his eyes to twinkling, pale blue eyes, he tried to concentrate on the words.

“We were quite worried when you disappeared just over five years ago. Can you tell us, Harry, where you were? What have you been doing all these years?” He heard the words, they were familiar and he grasped their meaning, for the most part, but it had been years before he had spoken in that tongue and never in an instance where he was to express or explain himself. Still, he did not trust them. How did he know if this wasn’t some sort of trick?

Instead, he asked his own questions, needing to better ascertain his situation, “Cò thusa agus càite a bheil mi?” Three confused faces looked back at him, but one held shocked understanding. Nodding, the woman covered in dark green and blue tartan cleared her throat.

“He is asking who we are and where he is, Albus,” the second woman explained.

“Would you mind terribly, Minerva, to take care of introductions?” the man in the scarily colored robe spoke.

She nodded, “Of course, but it has been some time since I last spoke. Very well,” she stood up straighter. “Seo Albus Dumbledore,” she pointed to the man with the long beard, “ceannard na sgoile; An t-Ollamh Snape,” pointing now to the man wearing all black, “a bhios a ’teagasg potions; Madam Pomfrey,” indicating the woman who had first approached, “ar meanbh-chuileag; agus is mise,” she lastly pointed to herself, “an t-Ollamh McGonagall agus bidh mi a ’teagasg transfiguration. Tha sinn aig Sgoil Hogwarts airson Bana-bhuidsich agus Bana-bhuidsich.” He perked up at the last sentence. School?

“Is mise Nadair Sgaith,” he spoke to Professor McGonagall, not quite relaxing, not yet, but feeling a bit relieved he was at a place that could possibly help him, maybe even offer him a place to convalesce before he continued to move.

“He says his name is Nadair. Nadair Sgaith,” McGonagall translated. The man cloaked in black perked up, Professor Snape, dark eyes narrowing slightly, as if trying to figure something out, while the headmaster stroked his beard.

“I see,” Dumbledore said in a grandfatherly tone. “It seems we may have mistaken you for someone else, but there is a way of validating or dismissing our beliefs, if you are not so duly opposed.” McGonagall once again translated and slowly he was recalling the English they were using, but he didn’t want to tell them just yet. Let it be a secret of his own for now.

“Albus,” Snape spoke for the first time, his voice a dark velvet, smooth and relaxing, yet hiding something deadly underneath like the man’s magic. “What are you thinking? Even if the boy is Potter, keeping that a secret far outweighs the benefits. If the Dark Lord were to find-”

Dumbledore rose a wizened hand cutting off whatever the potion’s professor was going to say. “If the Light were to learn of Harry’s safe return, it would give them hope and perhaps make Voldemort,” he noticed Snape’s left arm twitched, “pause. His very presence could turn the tides, Severus.” _I left one war to land square into another? Perhaps… but I have nowhere else to go._

“For now,” the headmaster continued, “let us make Mr. Sgaith comfortable and perhaps start gathering supplies for his studies, if he is amenable. The start of the new term begins in just over a month’s time. I am sure we will come up with a more appropriate solution by then.” The man gave another genial smile, patting the railing of the footboard and then left.

“Severus,” McGonagall spoke to her colleague, “I will write up a list of supplies Mr. Sgaith will need, could you assist him in these matters?” The transfiguration professor looked tired and worn, and Nadair was starting to wonder how long the war front had been raging and how badly it was going.

“Am faic mi liosta airson a h-uile bliadhna?” he asked quickly, not wanting to give anything away, but also wanting to see if his eight years of tutelage could give him some sort of advantage. If he was walking into another war, he wanted to be prepared. Instead of responding, the older professor gave a tight smile and a nod before trying to take her leave.

“Minerva,” the mediwitch finally spoke again, “can you please tell him that I want to do a medical scan?”

“Of course, Poppy,” came the tired reply. Nadair nodded his ascent after allowing the professor to translate.

“All right, young man,” Madam Pomfrey stepped up to the bed, “let us try this again.” She waved her wand in the same pattern as before only this time, the magic finished and a piece of parchment flew out from the end. From his own experiences being both wounded and tending to those who were wounded, he knew the longer the parchment, the more wounds and ailments the patient had. It was startling to see the exact length such a scan produced with him.

“Oh, my word!” the mediwitch gave a small exclaim and shook her head. “There are a few more potions you will need, Mr Sgaith, and bed rest.” However, before anything else could be said, Madam Pomfrey was already bustling away to fetch whatever it was she needed. Nadair sat with a bemused look, blinking a few times.

It was silent save for the time the mediwitch returned and dutifully watched him take every potion he was handed, but not before he discreetly cast detection charms over them. He knew arguing with healers was a test in futility, particularly when they gave one _that_ look, but he also wasn’t that trusting. When he knocked them all back with minimal protests, once he ascertained that they would indeed help him, the woman nodded in approval before leaving the two men alone once more.

A few more minutes passed before the black-clad professor broke the silence. “Tell me, Mr. Sgaith, do you really not understand English? Or do you have a reason for lying?”

Nadair looked over to the man, measuring him up. It would do to have an ally here, at least more than just Adrai, and she had yet to recover from the last ordeal. If he showed some level of trust, maybe it would be returned. He would need all the help he could get.

“It has been a long time since I last spoke this tongue,” he finally decided, watching the other for any sign or indication he needed to make a fast retreat. Onyx eyes narrowed slightly and then nodded.

“You would have made an excellent Slytherin,” the man uncrossed his arms and then sat down in the lone chair by his bed. “Now, I will keep your secret for answers.”

Nadair cocked his head and then smiled, one he was sure was reminiscent of a snake. “One better. You keep my secrets, I answer what I know and we exchange knowledge.” The man’s eyes held a slight flicker of surprise, but then he nodded.

“We are in agreement then, Mr. Sgaith. Now, first and foremost, do you have a wand and do you know how to use it? I have enough dunderheads running these halls to add another.” Quirking a brow at the description of what he assumed to be the students belonging to the school, Nadair flicked his right wrist and let the ebony wand settle into his hand.

Looking back at the man, he noted a slightly stunned expression and cocked his head to the side in question. Snape gestured with an elegant hand at his wand. For a moment, he was confused and then recognition surged through.

“Runes,” Nadair pushed the sleeve up on his right forearm with his left. To another, it looked as though nothing was there, but then, “Nochdadh,” and a dark leather wand holder was visible against his pale skin. Like his wand, it was covered in small, silvery runes, though slightly darker than those etched into his wand.

“How?” obsidian eyes were locked onto the holster and then flickered occasionally to the dark wand in his hand.

He smiled, “Knowledge for knowledge.”

“Indeed,” was his only response. “Now, can you use that?” His only answer was a nod and a flick of his wrist to once again conceal the holster, wand disappearing and seating itself back into the leather once he let it drop. “Good. For now, I shall leave you.” Snape stood and gave him a nod as he passed, Nadair returning the gesture. Although he was still unsure about the situation as a whole, at least he was healing and he would hopefully soon gain knowledge on how to proceed.

* * *

Severus strode from the hospital wing heading for the headmaster’s office. If that boy, no young man, was in fact Harry Bloody Potter, they may actually have a chance. The Longbottom boy would never be capable of the deeds that would need to be done, but Sgaith, he had an air about him, a knowledge of the world that he had seen in so few. Now, he just needed to convince the old coot not to do anything foolish.

The old man would insist on testing Sgaith to see if he was in fact Potter, but if they could keep it quiet, then perhaps all would not be lost. The arcane knowledge Sgaith could possess would be infallible to the war. A dry snort accompanied the thought.

The war. They were losing, there was no doubt about it. The Dark Lord may yet still allow the ministry to be ignorant, but it was all too similar to last time. Dementors and other dark creatures loyal to the Dark Lord were doing his bidding and all too soon, overt war would be upon them.

Snarling out the password to the gargoyle, he rode the moving stairs to the top, an almost sardonic mimicry to so many other times he had come at Albus’ beck and call. Perhaps, with this new development, he could shift the fate of those trapped in the middle. He knew there was no real redemption, no real second chances in the eyes of the Light.

Knocking in such a way as to show his haste and displeasure, he waiting for one precise moment before striding into the room. As always, the wizard was seated calmly behind his desk, hands folded atop, and half-moon glasses only slightly obscuring his grandfatherly visage.

“Ah, Severus, to what do I owe such a pleasure? Would you care for some tea or lemon drops?” he waved a hand to the small basket to the man’s right piled high with the sour sweets.

“No, Albus,” he stalked forward, hands held behind his back and peered down slightly. “I am here to try and sway you _not_ to spread word of Sgaith’s appearance. We, for one, do not know if he is in fact Potter and even if he is, we have no idea what happened to him these last five years.”

“Yes, yes. Though you have not yet made arrangements to tell your other employer, yet, have you, my boy?” Albus asked genially, yet there was a look in those blue eyes that sent a shiver down his spine. Dread pooled in his stomach and he occluded everything from the situation away.

“Of course not, Albus,” he snarked back, exactly as he would. Something was wrong. Something had changed, but he knew not what.

“Excellent, my boy. In that case, we shall work with Mr. Sgaith to learn the truth of the situation. I have it on good authority that he will be able to leave the hospital wing tomorrow. I want you to take him to Diagon Alley and gather what he will need to start the school year. While you are there,” the old man leveled him with a look, “I want you to meet with the goblins. See if they cannot ascertain some more of the truth.” There was a distinct pause. “I do not need to remind you of your oaths, correct, my boy?” It took everything he had to remain as he was.

“No, Albus, I recall perfectly well. Good day,” he ended the conversation quickly and turned on his heel to leave.

“To you as well, my boy,” was heard as the door shut.

* * *

The nap he allowed himself to take was interrupted by a presence near where he lay, his proximity alarms on the curtains giving him some level of warning. Opening his eyes, he was met with the stern countenance of the transfiguration’s professor.

“Feasgar math,” she inclined her head.

“Feasgar math,” Nadair responded in kind, but before she could continue, he held up a hand and gave a small smile, trying to keep the encounter civil. The woman’s magic was similar to a changeling’s, but it was also light and honest. “Please, English. I will follow.” Brown eyes widened slightly, but then she nodded once, going right back to business.

“I have compiled a list here for you and have included lists for supplies required for all seven years of Hogwarts schooling. We have had a series of different professors for Defense Against the Dark Arts, and I have included those books as well. Now, Professor Snape has agreed to take you to Diagon Alley, a place for you to procure these items should you wish once Madam Pomfrey has cleared you. Do you have any questions?”

“Chan eil,” he shook his head as well, as if the verbal answer was not enough.

“Good,” she placed a scroll on the small table to his right and then briskly turned and walked away. Before he could even contemplate closing his eyes again, another set of footsteps happened upon him.

“Mr. Sgaith, you missed lunch,” the mediwitch promptly informed him and with a couple flicks of her wrist he was sitting up and a tray of steaming soup with fresh bread and a cup of tea was now resting in front of him. As before, he checked all of the food and the tea before starting. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a warm meal. Allowing the smile he could feel tugging at his lips to blossom, he gave the mediwitch a nod of thanks.

“Now, I need to run another scan to just see how you are progressing. Do you understand? She asked, her entire presence no nonsense. “Maybe I should call Minerva back,” she started to waver slightly.

“I understand,” Nadair informed the witch in between sips of broth, placing the spoon back in the bowl and waiting patiently.

“Oh, good,” she gave a small smirk, “if only all of my patients were so considerate.” A few wand waves later and he was given the all clear to leave the wing tomorrow, provided he ate everything on his plate and continued to receive nutrition potions for the next week. After agreeing, he was left to eat his dinner in peace.

Sometime later, after he had finished off the soup by using the bread as a delicious sponge, he sat holding the cup of tea in his hands, the liquid still steaming from the warming charms. It was such a vast difference to his previous memories. Death and gore, the sounds of the dead and dying, were constantly on the edge of his awareness and he prayed they would remain in the periphery, if only for one more night.

* * *

The next morning was another grey day, but at least he would be leaving the bed. As the night before, Madam Pomfrey bustled in, checked him, and bade him to eat everything she had on the tray she gave him, including the nutrition potion, which all underwent his customary checks. Though he hated being in bed, being fed like this was something he could certainly get used to.

“I see you’ve finished, Mr. Sgaith,” Pomfrey came to take his tray. “Professor Snape will come fetch you soon, I imagine. I do hope you _don’t_ make a habit of occupying one of my beds,” she gave him a rueful smile and was off again. He chuckled and let himself rest for the moment. It was odd, resting. There had been so much to do that he never really had the ability to do so before. In fact, he found himself, even with his injuries, still trying to wake up at dawn’s first light, but Adrai had cautioned him repeatedly to allow himself time to recuperate after their journey here. And now he understood, all too well.

When he had first woken, everything had hurt and it felt as if he had stupidly gone several rounds with a nesting dragon. He really hadn’t had any desire to move from the bed. Now, however, with the worst of his injuries healed by magic and food in his stomach, he was starting to itch, to get restless. Nadair truly hoped Snape would show soon. One could only stare at white walls for so long before insanity tried to set in.

As if answering his prayers, the hospital wing doors swished open and booted feet made their way toward him. Once again dressed all in black, the potion’s professor moved swiftly and efficiently toward him.

“Poppy has cleared you to leave?” the man asked succinctly.

“Yes,” he reminded himself to once again answer in English.

“Good. Now, get ready and we shall be off, unless you have yet to eat?” a single eyebrow rose, as if the mere idea of him not eating yet, despite the still early morning was laughable. Considering the matron who ran the hospital wing, perhaps it was.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he hopped off the mattress and searched quickly for his armor, knowing it, like his wand, would never be far from his side while certain tunes were active.

“Your clothes and other belongings are in the cabinet of the nightstand,” Snape provided helpfully. Giving the other man a grin of thanks, he knelt quickly and grabbed the folded stack of clothes, the twin set of daggers in their respective sheaths sitting neatly on top with a small pouch. It was sad to see, he noted, that this was everything he had.

Setting the pile on the bed, he grimaced in distaste at the state of his armor. The beautiful black and emerald dragon scales were bloodied, but he would not feel safe with anything less. With efficiency borne of far too much practice, he flicked his wrist to release his wand and cast several nonverbal cleaning charms all over the armor, paying special attention to where the layers overlapped.

Once the scales were gleaming in the morning light, he smiled and began to disrobe. He was stopped by an indignant shout of “Sgaith,” causing him to look up in confusion. What had he done? They needed to leave and they were both male. Privacy was a figment of one’s imagination in times of war.

“If you insist on changing here, I will close the curtain,” Snape turned with militant efficiency and closed the same curtains he had seen when he first woke with a flick of his wand. Maybe such things were not as accepted here?

Shrugging it off, he proceeded to doff the pajamas he had been placed in and donned his armor, underthings quickly cleaned. A shower might actually be warranted, Nadair acquiesced as he finally noted his body’s state.

“Snape?” he called out quietly, knowing the man wasn’t far away.

“Yes?” the smooth velvet drawled.

“There is a shower, yes?” he asked, the English still not quite there as it once was.

“Toward the office on the right,” the man replied in the same tone.

“Thank you,” he grabbed his clothes, after quickly putting the pajamas back on, and walked out of the curtained off area to shower. Ten blissful minutes later had Nadair clean and dressed exiting the bathroom. He had been sorely tempted to just stay under the hot spray, but knew he had to leave. Though that did not stop the thought that he could always find a bath and soak for as long as he wanted when they returned.

“Are you finished?” Snape inquired, eyebrow once again raised. In lieu of a verbal answer, he nodded and began walking toward the large doors, his newfound companion taking up residence next to him. 

Their walk took them through what seemed to be a circuitous route and Nadair was glad to have a guide showing him how to make it out of the school. The castle, as that was surely what this was, was a veritable trap for anyone who didn’t know its secrets. Magic coursed through the air in subtle tendrils and caressed playfully, but he knew all too well how quickly such a thing could turn deadly.

When they finally made it to the front doors, he took a deep breath of fresh air and followed the dark-clad man to a gate afield. The path they took spoke of some sort of carriages and he assumed it was the traditional method of traveling along the road, but he was grateful for the walk, his body needing to move and stretch. He also took the time to feel out the other’s magic. It was subtle, hidden in a way, but strong and unyielding. It flowed gently, yet also held hints of deadly promises.

Upon reaching the gate, Snape held out his arm. Staring at the man in confusion, he waited for an explanation.

“I will apparate us to Diagon Alley where we will be able to procure what you require,” was the only clarification. Hesitantly, he grabbed on the the man’s elbow and hoped this wasn’t something he was going to regret. In between one moment and the next, it felt as if someone were squeezing his body through a tube ten sizes too small and when it was over, waves of discomfort flitted over him.

Was that how wizards travel? It was awful. He never wanted to “apparate” again. With sheer will power, he opened his eyes, ready to show his displeasure about this particular mode of travel when he saw a bustling street of vendors and people. Wares of all sorts lined the road and awe filled him at the sight, his displeasure momentarily forgotten. This must be Diagon Alley.


End file.
